And This One?
by KCUrquhart
Summary: He let himself start to drift off as Clint's fingers skated across his chest and stomach, wandering aimlessly. Until they circled a small spot just below Phil's collarbone. Phil was too out of it to realize why until Clint spoke up, his voice hushed. "What about this one?"


"And this one?" Phil feels Clint's fingers brush along the outside of his hip where a jagged pink line marred his skin.

"Knife fight in Timbuktu." Phil dropped his head back onto his pillow. He let his eyes drift closed as he focused on the tips of Clint's fingers playing against the scar.

"That all I'm gonna get?"

"On that one, yeah. That story's not exciting enough to bother telling."

"Doesn't mean I don't want to hear it." Clint whined.

Phil chuckled softly. "I was on a mission, back when I'd first joined SHIELD. My handler at the time was rather adamant about me performing a task that I didn't feel necessary. I may have gotten a touch angry and may have attacked him. The scar was my only injury while he got benched for three months with a broken tibia."

Clint laughed; that deep-full belly laugh that Phil loved. "Man should have known better than to go up against the Legend." Clint's fingers moved away and Phil groaned as cold air bit at his flesh. But the groan changed as the cold was pushed away by Clint pressing his lips to the scar. "Got any scars somewhere _lower?"_

Clint's hands moved towards the waistband of Phil's boxers. Phil rolled his eyes and smacked Clint's hands away. "You know the rules. One a night." He made sure to lean up so that he could glare at Clint to help reinforce his point. Clint could be a stubborn bastard but this was a tradition and Phil didn't fuck with traditions.

Clint stuck out his tongue and dropped his chin onto Phil's stomach, pouting. It wasn't the first time that he reminded Phil of an overgrown three year old. Phil simply winked and let his head fall back as he closed his eyes again. It'd been a long day and he was looking forward to maybe getting at least a few hours of decent sleep before whatever next catastrophe that required his attention.

He let himself start to drift off as Clint's fingers skated across his chest and stomach, wandering aimlessly. Until they circled a small spot just below Phil's collarbone. Phil was too out of it to realize why until Clint spoke up, his voice hushed. "What about this one?"

And suddenly Phil knew exactly what Clint's fingers were covering and his heart started racing. "What did I just tell you? One scar a night." He was proud of how level his voice was even though he wouldn't have been surprised if Clint could feel the pounding of his chest through his hands, only inches from his heart. "Now go to bed, Clint."

Clint fell silent and his hands moved off of Phil's chest as he shifted in the bed. This time the cold left behind was a welcome relief. The skin around the scar felt like it was a blistering beacon that Phil would rather just ignore. He almost jumped as a pair of soft, warm lips touched down onto the spot. The touch somehow a salve that dulled the burning and eased the tension from Phil's body. "What was that for?"

"Just cause I don't know the story doesn't mean it isn't a part of you. And I love every part of you."

It took a while for Phil to fall asleep, his heart now racing for an entirely different reason.

~;~

As they are crawling into bed the next night, Phil is admittedly a little nervous. Clint has a way of getting things stuck in his head and not giving up on them until he has an answer. Phil is really hoping that the story behind the scar isn't one of them. Because that's a story that Phil has never told anyone. Even thinking about someone else knowing, Phil gives an involuntary shudder.

"You cold?" Clint's arms wrap around Phil's waist and tug him down into bed so that he's sprawling half on top of Clint. Phil tries to shift but Clint just grips him tighter with one hand while dragging the covers over them with the other. "Better?" He places a quick kiss onto Phil's shoulder.

Phil nods. His heart is still twisted into knots with panic and anxiety, but being in Clint's arms, it _is _better. The rhythm of Clint's breathing and the weight of his arms are constant reminders that Clint was still here despite everything they'd been through. It's stupid of him to think that this story would be the thing that final drove Clint away, but knowing that it was stupid only made him angry with himself on top of everything else.

Clint's breathing deepened and for a minute Phil thought that maybe he was going to fall asleep before asking about a scar. As much of a relief as that was, Phil wouldn't let it happen. Like he'd said, he didn't fuck with traditions. "You gonna ask for a story, or what?"

He could feel Clint's lips curl up into a smile where they were still pressed against his shoulder. "This one." Clint's hands traced a thin pale half-moon shape that was barely visible where it sat just inside his hairline.

Phil's whole body relaxed and he really hoped that Clint hadn't noticed too much. "I don't remember, actually. I've had that one as long as I can remember. My Dad says that I got it when I tried to climb the Christmas tree when I was two. I fell and took some of the bulbs with me. One of them shattered and a small piece got stuck there."

"Phil Coulson as a trouble-maker. Never would've guessed it." Clint shifted, stretching up so that he could place a kiss onto the scar. "Wonder what happened to turn you into Mr. Straight-Edge."

"Who said I'm not still a trouble-maker?" Phil growled, spinning around to face Clint and tugging his bottom lip between his teeth in just the way that always made Clint crazy.

Twenty minutes later, as Phil was drifting off in a post-sex haze, he only just registered the feel of lips pressing momentarily to a spot below his collarbone.

~;~

Three weeks of Phil worrying every night and of every night Clint asking about another of his way-too-many scars. Before they'd started this tradition, Phil would have said that he maybe had a dozen scars, mostly from knives or stray bullets when on an op. Yet they'd been doing this every night for almost six months (minus the weeks here and there when they were on missions) and Clint was still finding scars Phil forgot he had.

"This one?" A wide jagged line across the back of Phil's hand. Pale to the point that he was surprised anyone would have been able to spot it even if they knew where to look.

"Rope burn when I was in middle school. I was out water skiing and the rope slipped weird."

Clint placed a small kiss on it, and, just like every other night, a small kiss on the scar just below his collar bone.

~;~

The splatter-mark scar on his leg that almost looks like a birthmark. "Shot-gun blast. The tree I was hiding behind got the most of it."

A kiss and a kiss.

~;~

The thin white line inside his elbow. "Knife fight in Kabul"

A kiss and a kiss.

~;~

A smooth redish splotch on his thigh. "Torture in Bombay. Damn bastards were fans of fire."

Two kisses with a little more length and love behind them.

~;~

"What about this one?"

"That's a paper cut." Phil rolled his eyes.

"But you got it on a mission, and it _might _leave a scar." Clint smirked and placed his two kisses.

~;~

By the time Clint got to the scar on knuckle of Phil's right hand, he was starting to consider telling Clint the truth. Clint had heard every story behind every scar and had never judged him or thought differently of him for any of them. He didn't ridicule him for the ones he got by being a dumbass and he didn't worship him for the ones he got by being a badass. To Phil, it almost felt as if Clint was just trying to fill in little details, things to add depth to the color of his affections for Phil. Rather than something to change the tone entirely.

So when Clint pointed to the remains of the gash across the back of his knuckles that he'd gotten on the same day as his collarbone scar, he only hesitated for a second. "It was a hunting accident."

"You hunt?" Phil could almost hear Clint's jaw hitting the floor. "You, Mr. City-Boy, hunt?"

"No." Phil's voice waved and he hated the tears pushing at his eyes. He could do this damn-it. This was Clint. He could tell Clint. Only he couldn't. Now that he was here and trying to say the words, he couldn't make them come out. He couldn't tell Clint the story and watch the tears and sadness form in the other man's eyes.

"Hey." Clint's hand slipped into his, pulling it away from when it'd unconsciously moved up to rub across the line on his collarbone. Clint kissed his knuckles before brushing Phil's fingers aside so that he could kiss the other scar. "It's okay. You don't have to tell me."

"But I-" Phil started to protest, wanting to make Clint understand that how badly he wanted to tell him but that he just couldn't. At least not yet. But Clint cut him off, pecking him softly on the lips.

"I love you."

~;~

In the end, the story simply slipped out without Phil meaning it to. They'd gone over every scar at least twice, and all of the new ones that their job kept adding, and Clint was to the point where he would pick out the ones with his favorite stories. But no matter what, every single night, Clint kissed the scar on Phil's collarbone. Until one night, well over a year since they'd started the tradition, as Clint's lips were pressing to the scar, Phil whispered "I tried to kill myself."

Instantly he felt Clint's whole body tense and cool air rush against his skin as Clint gasped. Neither one of them moved. Phil shifted slightly, trying to move so that he could see Clint's face and read his thoughts there. Clint moved faster, leaning up to kiss Phil on the lips. It was soft and reassuring but Phil felt like there was almost a pleading behind it.

When Clint pulled back he looked straight into Phil's eyes and Phil saw exactly what he had expected, sadness and heartbreak and pain, the last things he ever wanted to make Clint feel. Only they were overshadowed by a familiar glint that Phil couldn't quite place. Whatever it was, it gave him what he needed to take a deep breath and tell Clint the whole story.

"The hunting accident." Phil brought up his hand, shifting Clint around so that he could remind him of the marks on his knuckles. "I was in the woods, I'd forgotten it was hunting season. I only figured it'd be easier than doing it at home. Didn't want the neighbors to have to deal with the smell. I was only 18, just moved out and was trying to survive on my own. Didn't go as well as I'd planned.

My dad had given me a gun for my birthday, for protection. I had it loaded and pointed straight at my heart, finger on the trigger, when a bullet blasted through the window and grazed my hand. The jolt caused my finger to twitch, but it'd thrown off my aim. The bullet barely scraped the bone.

I was still debating my options, whether to still kill myself or not, when the hunter ran up. It took him all of ten seconds to figure everything out. He patched up my wounds then spent the next six hours just sitting with me and listening. All my life I'd never had anyone willing to just sit and listen like that." Phil paused as he remembered the grizzled old man in his neon orange coat, sitting with him late into the afternoon. "He was… a miracle. He drove me to the hospital and stayed with me while the doctors fixed me up and then made sure I got home okay and made me promise to come track him down before trying something again."

Phil finished, looking down at Clint who hadn't moved the entire time. His eyes were glued on Phil's collarbone. "Do you know his name?" His voice was soft.

Phil shook his head. "He simply told me to call him a friend."

"But you tracked him down once you got to SHIELD, right?"

"Nope." Clint raised an eyebrow, not understanding. "He sent a card every year, on the anniversary of the day. Just something to say that he still remembered and cared and was thinking of me. And that was what mattered. That he had been there when I needed him the most."

As their eyes met again, Phil finally recognized the deeper look in them. It was the same look Clint got every time they were in the field together. As if he would take on the world for Phil. And it always made Phil feel loved in a way nothing else could come close to.

"What about once the cards stop?" Clint was tentative, trying to push at a question without asking it.

"While I appreciate the cards, I've since found other people who remind me every day of just how lucky I am. A certain someone who loves each and every part of me and whom I love in return." Clint beamed. "Besides, you should be grateful all of that happened. After all, that man is the reason I still believe in heroes."


End file.
